


Insanity

by Pegs (and_peggyy)



Series: Hanging from a String [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Rape, Paternal Lestrade, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock is insane, Torture, john is kind of an arse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_peggyy/pseuds/Pegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, Sherlock comes back to find John hating him. He is invited to live with Greg for the time being, but he soon learns of Sherlock being tortured. He tries to help him, and bring him back to the way he used to be.</p>
<p>"All John saw was eyes, familiar eyes with something in them he couldn't quite place. He felt relieved, then blinding rage as anger consumed him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any type of Sherlock, as if I did this would be canon, or just not on here. As I said in the tags, there are slight mentions of rape, but nothing graphic or in detail. I hope you enjoy!

John Watson sat in his chair as the door knocked. He sighed and got up, thinking it was Lestrade. He was greeted by a man in a hoodie. All John saw was eyes, familiar eyes with something in them he couldn't quite place. He felt relieved, then blinding rage as anger consumed him.

 

"Sherlock."

 

"John.."

 

His eyes were set ablaze with fury, undying fury. He lifted up his hand, and slapped him across the face, and kicked him and raged all over him, but Sherlock did nothing. He just stood there and took all of the abuse until John couldn't hit him anymore.

 

"Go." He said, his voice a whisper.

 

Sherlock nodded in a daze and walked away, wincing slightly.

 

_He sat, chained to the chair. The man smiled sickly and he shuddered. He sat as another round of torture began, the whips and other instruments cutting into his wounds. He faintly felt kick to the stomach and heard something crack as his vision slowly faded and his mind started to snap._

 

Greg walked over to John's home. He was coming for a drink, and to just forget about everything, but something caught his eye. At the side of the flats he saw a man in a hoodie with a familiar mop of curls. 

 

He was stained with red.

 

Greg rushed over to him, seeing cuts and bruises on his face, and all over him.

 

"God Sherlock, what have you done? And how.." He said and choked back a sob.

 

Sherlock only dropped his head and muttered as Lestrade helped him up to his home.

 

_If anything, he'd imagined that if John didn't kill him, he would at least let him in. That was the one thing that kept him from stopping, taking down Moriarty's web one by one. But now, he had nothing. No home, no friends. And then, a savior came in the form of an Inspector. But it didn't bring him back to sanity. No, he was far from it._


	2. Renew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is brought to Gregs flat, and they talk about what has happened.

As soon as they had gotten to Lestrade's flat, Sherlock curled into a ball on his couch and refused to talk.

 

"At least eat something, okay?" Greg begged, handing him a peice of toast.

 

Sherlock, much to his relief, took it and started nibbling on it.

 

"I'll let you stay here until you're back on your feet, but you have a lot that needs explaining." He told him and Sherlock gave him a weak smile.

 

"Thank you."

 

____________________________

 

As the sun peeked through the windows, Sherlock woke up to Lestrade sitting on the chair next to him.

 

"You have questions."

 

"Well of course I do! My-my wife left me, I almost got fired! You ruined my life and I want to know why." Greg yelled at him. He knew he was letting his emotions go wild, but he genuinely wanted to know why he left them.

 

Sherlock frowned. "I know, and I  _am_ sorry. I had to because Moriarty was going to have you, John and Ms. Hudson killed. I knew my plan might not have worked, but if it went wrong I would rather die than have my only friends die."

 

Greg stared at him, appaled. He had thought that he had left for selfish reasons, or died because he was brought down by his lies. But honestly, he knew that Sherlock hadn't killed himself. He would never, not if he lied or anything at all. He was just too brilliant.

 

"You know,  I never believed you were a fraud. But really, could you not have told us? Do you not trust us? You made John watch you  **die**... you let your best friend believe you had committed suicide for gods sake!"

 

Sherlock looked taken aback. "I, I just couldn't tell you. The snipers were watching very closely, and if you knew, what if you just happened to slip something up? And I had to have him watch, or he might not have believed it."

 

He was angry of course, but he should have expected it from Sherlock. He always acted if he was too high and mighty to have any normal people help him...

 

"So... How did you do it, make us believe you died?"

 

As he explained it, he realized something while looking at him. Some of the scars were fresh, at least a day old. He frowned. He probably was not doing whatever he had been doing while he was dead yesterday so...

 

"Sherlock," he cut off. "Some of those scars are new, what are they from?"

 

Sherlock fidgeted nervously. "They were from John." He muttered.

 

"Did he not see your scars?"

 

"I hid them from him. I didn't want him to pity me."

 

Stupid stupid Sherlock. Why did you let him hit you. I just want the pain to go, go away and live like I did before. Before... Everything.

 

Greg watched as Sherlock Holmes, the sociopath broke down and cried, cried and hugged himself tight and scratched at his legs. And he smiled, smiled and right then he knew Sherlock was broken.

 

_"The great Sherlock Holmes, sitting in front of me like a poor puppy." The man laughed and smacked his face. Sherlock sat expressionless. He had cracked long ago, and nothing could faze him. He was lost in a maze of his mind, never ending and intertwining._

 

_The one thing in his head that kept him from killing himself._

 

_John_

 

_Lestrade_

 

_Hudson_

 

_He couldn't let them down, yet he already let himself down._


	3. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finds out how bad things really were.

"You're going to have to go take a shower now that you're all teary." Lestrade half joked as Sherlock stopped crying. He smiled a little at him, then helped him up, leading him to the direction of the bathrooms.

 

"I'll go get a spare change of clothes for you and put it outside the door, there's a towel already in there, okay?"

 

Sherlock weakly nodded and shuffled in. Greg waited for him, and after 45 minutes he started to get uneasy.

 

"Sherlock? You okay?" He called out. As there was no response, he repeated it, but louder. After still no response he got up and knocked on the door. All he heard was a groan.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"H-help."

 

His instincts kicked in. He knocked the door down to find Sherlock on the ground with a towel around his waist. And oh god...

 

There were rope marks, burns, and scars all over his body like a painting. Almost no place was uncovered except for a few patches on his feet, and most of his head. On his neck was quite a few hand marks, too many to count. And a mark from a collar...

 

"Jesus Sherlock, what have you done?" He muttered mostly to himself, not the first time these past two days. He gently picked him up only to elicit a small cry from the consulting detective.

 

_He was back in the warehouse, not the first (or probably last) time that Moran had kidnapped him, wanting him to tell him where his boss was hiding. Of course, from what he knew his boss/lover, or Jim Moriarty was dead. But, every time he told him that it just made him angrier and angrier. He didn't want to believe it, but it was true._

 

Sherlock was now back on the couch, laying down. Lestrade was on his chair, eyeing him warily. "So, care to tell me where all those scars came from?"

 

Sherlock, squeezed his eyes tighter and muttered a 'no.' He rolled his eyes at him. Fine then, he would use the trump card.

 

"If you don't explain, I will personally drop you off at the hospital to be treated." He said angrily, and smirked as Sherlock's eyes snapped open. For a reason unknown, he just despised hospitals. maybe because of his drug habit, or maybe because he had been there so much. He didn't know.

 

Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and sat up. "Most are from me taking down Moriarty's web. The others are kidnappers who liked him, and the handprints are from Moran, his second hand man and boyfriend, and he also-" Sherlock said, but then stopped abruptly. After a moment he said "Burn marks, he burnt me." 

 

Greg knew he wasn't  telling the truth, but he ignored it. He knew that Sherlock probably had a hard time the past two years, and was most likely shaken up, no matter how 'sociopath-y' he acted.

 

Greg nodded and stood up. "Well, I'll be going to work. If you need me, call me and I'll be over. Don't mess my flat up too much." And with a pat on the shoulder, he promptly left.

 

Sherlock was alone again, and he flopped back down on the couch, sinking into his mind palace. Maybe, if he tried he could find a way to delete it all, but in the back of his head, he knew he could never forget it. So he ran through his mind, jumping room to room looking for a way out of it all.

 

Greg came back, exausted. He was tired from the day, but mostly surprised that Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. He sighed, and went to make dinner for the both of them. He would make him eat whether he liked it or not. To pass the time, he tried to make small talk.

 

"So, why no sleeping last night?" Sherlock looked at him, surprised. "Well I usually don't so.."

 

Greg rolled his eyes at him. "When was the last time you slept?"

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and frowned. "Well, when was the last time I was kidnapped? About four days ago. So I last slept five days ago."

 

Lestrade stared at him. "Well then, today you are eating a decent meal and sleep the whole night, or I'll kick you in the sidewalk. Are we clear?"

 

Sherlock grumbled, but nodded to him. Satisfied, Greg went back to the kitchen to finish making the food.

 

_He laid on the ground, 'not as comfortable as a couch' he noted as he slept in an alleyway. That way, if somebody was coming for him, the echoing would wake him up. He was always in danger, but he didn't care. He had stopped caring about it all long ago._


End file.
